One Thousand Paper Cranes
by Tiny Octopus
Summary: After the war, Okinawa is sent to live with America temporarily. Post-war tension and adjustment to life with the western nation do not make her recovery any easier. Part of the Okinawa "series" including "1,000 Cherry Blossoms" and "Lapis Lazuli," though can be read as a stand-alone. Also on A03.


**There are a few references to** **"Lapis Lazuli" and "One Thousand Cherry Blossoms in here," as this is part of the Okinawa "series," but you don't have to have read those to get this one.**

* * *

America's house is too big, I think when we are standing in the entryway and I am staring up at a ceiling far higher than it needs to be. There are so many rooms and so much wasted space, and I cannot believe that he actually lives all alone.

"Well, here we are," he says with a smile, "Home sweet home! Come on, I'll show you your room."

We go down the hall and up a flight of stairs, and he stops to open one of the doors on the left side of the hallway. I peer around him and see a large, furnished room with a window overlooking the city and my eyes widen. "This is mine?" I ask cautiously, and he nods.

"Yep, for however long you'll be here." Slowly, I enter the room. The carpet floor is soft on my bare feet. Climbing up onto the window sill, I stare out at strange buildings and people, and a feeling of loneliness washes over me. Once, I needed only to close my eyes and listen to the waves and I could imagine being with my brother, but no longer. A cord in the open sea, my brother once said, that is what I am. I feel as though the cord has been severed and I am adrift, floating aimlessly, lost in the middle of a vast, foreign sea with no shore in sight.

"So, what do you think?" America urges, and I turn to look at him, hoping to fool him with a careful smile, but instead tears run down my face. His own smile vanishes.

"No, I," I choke, "I like it very much. I do." And America is still very unsure of eastern nations and boundaries, and he does not know what to do, so he leaves me there, and I am happy to have a moment alone.

* * *

When Japan first visits, he brings with him origami paper. "One thousand, sister," he reminds me, "You must make one thousand," and inwardly I cry, _I already have!_, but I take the paper with a nod and begin the one thousand and first.

* * *

I came to America with nothing but the clothes on my back, and I know that they, too, must go. They are relics of an era passed, a bastardization of tradition mashed together with wartime imperialism, ugly pockmarks in Japan's history, and mine as well. I write to my brother and ask, very nicely and indirectly, if he will bring my clothes the next time he comes to visit, but America approaches me before then with a colorful box.

"Here," he says, handing it to me, and I thank him quietly. I realize when he does not leave that he expects me to open it in front of him and do so carefully. Inside the box is a western dress set, a blouse and skirt, red with white lace, and I have never seen anything like it before so I hold it up and stare in awe. America is pleased by my reaction. "Do you like it?" he asks, and I nod, though quickly remember myself and fold the dress up as I found it.

"Thank you," I say, putting it back in the box, "But I cannot have this."

America is stubborn. He takes the box from my hands, but then says, "I'll put it in your closet in case you change your mind," and disappears up the stairs.

* * *

I make paper cranes. I do nothing but make paper cranes. I make them when I wake in the morning, and I make them when I am about to go to sleep, and I make them at the kitchen table when America and I eat together. He never says a word; I think that maybe he does not notice at first, perhaps ignoring it as some ancient, eastern tradition. At night, I dream of giant paper cranes taking flight from the room America has given me and out the window, and I ride on their backs and they take me beyond America's borders, beyond the ocean, and home, home to my people and my food and my clothes and my brother. My brother holds me in these dreams. He says, Okinawa, welcome home, and I know what happiness is, I know what joy is, I know what it feels like to have everything you want in one moment.

And then I wake.

An unfinished paper crane clenched in one hand.

I know I will not be able to sleep for some time, so I begin folding again.

* * *

The next time my brother visits, he brings my clothing with him, several new yukata and the blue kimono he gave to me long ago. "My sister has nothing to wear," he tells America, feeling he must justify his every action in fear of retaliation if he does not. America looks confused.

"No. I gave her something just a few days ago, but she hasn't worn it yet."

At this, Japan falls silent. He goes to the room America has given me to see for himself and I follow silently. When he sees the red clothing there, he drops the yukata and kimono he carries and turns to me, eyes wide with anger. "Why did you not tell me he already bought you things?" he hisses, "Now he thinks we are ungrateful!"

"When I wrote to you, he had not," I tell him timidly, shrinking back.

"You refused them!" he shouts, "You cannot do that, sister. You cannot refuse anything you are offered, or you will make him angry, and you must not do that. Have you already forgotten the war? Have you already forgotten the things he is capable of?"

I begin to cry, and my brother's anger fades, his voice softening as he tells me, "Do not make him angry. Do not do anything at all to upset him. Do you understand? You must accept the clothes." There is guilt in his eyes now, and he draws closer, arms open, but I push him away without thinking. He stands in the room looking so lost and so hurt, the pain in his eyes greater than any he felt in the war. "I am sorry," he whispers, and leaves as quickly as he'd come.

I take the rumpled kimono from the floor and hold it to my chest. It smells like home.

* * *

Suddenly, America decides to notice the cranes, perhaps because I have moved from my room to the hallway floor. He sits beside me and watches curiously.

"Origami," I say before he asks, "My brother taught me. You can make all kinds of things with just one piece of paper."

"What are you making now?"

"Cranes. If you make one thousand, your wish comes true." Truthfully, I know better. I am not a child anymore; I know that copper bracelets will not improve circulation and that walnuts will not cure roundworms, but there are not many things that I do believe in, so I take my brother's words as a sutra that I recite every day and believe they will bring me enlightenment. One thousand cranes will bring me my wish.

"Can you teach me?" America asks, and I agree. His hands are large and clumsy, and the crane comes out lopsided, but for some reason, it makes me smile. America picks it up and holds it like he's afraid he'll crush it, staring with awe.

"999 more to go," I say, and then hesitantly, "What will you wish for?"

America is not smiling anymore. He gently puts the crane down beside mine."I wish that the bomb had never been dropped," he says quietly. I am momentarily stunned into silence. It is not what I expected to hear.

"I do not think it works that way," I say softly, "You cannot wish to change the past. You can only wish for things to be different in the future."

America embraces me, even though he is the one who is crying.

* * *

There is another rape.

I am supposed to receive letters to inform me of problems during the occupation, but even before they come, I know. I can feel the sorrow of my people even across an ocean. America sits at the kitchen counter, hands rubbing his temples as he listens to his boss on the phone, and the little voice coming out of the speaker says angry, hateful things, denies that any of this is America's fault and that those backwards island people are just trying to start trouble. And America cannot argue, he cannot get a word in, so he just goes, "Yeah," and, "I get it," and shakes his head.

When he notices me in the kitchen doorway, his eyes are wide and I see guilt there. I want to tell him that it really isn't his fault, and that I understand, after a war I understand how people and nations can want very different things, I can understand that soldiers and civilians are different, and there is diversity even among them. I want to tell him that I can bear the pain because this is not the first time; I have felt my people suffer before at the hands of even my own brother, I have felt frenzied imperial soldiers pillaging the island, and I have survived that, so I can survive this.

But nothing comes out of my mouth, and America looks down at the table in shame.

* * *

Although I am not allowed at the meeting, America takes me with him and I wait outside, hoping that I will have a chance to see my brother. Instead, I see China, and I eagerly get to my feet to greet him. He meets my eyes, but rather than sweep forward to embrace me as he did when I was only a girl, he instead says, "Ah, are you one of the disputed territories?" very professional, very cold, as though we are strangers.

My heart breaks at the thought-have I really changed so much that he cannot recognize my face, or have I simply been forgotten?-but I force myself to breathe, to nod, and to say, "Yes, you are correct," because it is not completely a lie. At least I hope it is not. My brother has not moved to take me home yet, though he said my stay with America was only temporary.

And China, having no interest in disputed land and no reason to stay, tells me to take care and heads in to the meeting.

When America leaves the meeting, I am crying. "No, no," I tell him when he panics, asking if something happened while he was gone, "Nothing at all."

"That's strange," he mumbles, "China was crying, too."

I am shocked into silence. Before I can gather my thoughts to inquire further, I see China leave the meeting as well, wipe a stray tear on his sleeve, and smile sadly at me as he hurries down the corridor.

* * *

And suddenly, I look back, and my days with America are over. He comes home and tells me, with a small smile, that my brother is ready for me to come home. I am overcome with emotion-excitement, anxiety, happiness, confusion, years of worries evaporating all at the same time-but I cannot bring myself to express any of it because America's smile is not a happy one. "But," he says, trying very hard not to cry, in much the same way my brother does, "That doesn't mean you can't visit anymore."

So of all the things that I am feeling, I choose to show gratitude, and though I am small and don't quite reach his chest, I wrap my arms around America's legs and whisper, "_Arigatou_."

This time, we both cry.

* * *

I see America again before a meeting not long after, this time brought as a guest by my brother, and I wave to get his attention. "You're wearing the clothes I gave you!" he says excitedly.

"I really do like them," I say, "My brother says that blue suits me better than red, but I think they are nice." He beams at that. "Did you ever make one thousand cranes?"

"Oh," he says, and looks embarrassed, "Well, uh. No. Not yet. But! I will soon!"

I can't help but smile. "And what will you wish for then?"

"I want you, Japan and I to become friends," he says. His answer is childish and so sincere, and I smile wider. "Can I make a wish like that? Will it work?"

"I think it definitely will," I assure him, and his eyes are bright with hope as he leaves for the meeting.

Really, America does not have to make cranes for such a wish. But I don't tell him that.


End file.
